Grief is a circle-

it destroys, decapitates, then revives.

Every moment the heartstrings,

they sing for that lost moment,

the lost touch, the feeling of gray middle grounds.

That never happened,

vision becomes black and white.

Hunger to live ceases at moments.

The broken-winged dove-

at the street doesn’t sing of brown seeds or nectars.

Then, mourning ceases,

comes the crippled first baby steps,

towards the freedom from all that was known.

Memories burned into ashtrays,

Candles, and incense in a weary bowl.

Candles they sing of glory days,

heart still beats,

breath urges on.

While the sleeper rests from all duties bound.

The vagrant mourning heart urges to go on.

                                                                                             ~Tania Alphonsa George

                                                                                               Kollam, India